Monday, March 5, 2012

Motivation Monday

Here's the thing. Last Monday? I lived in Motivation City, somewhere between Motivation Avenue and Motivation Court.

Today? Meh.

Sara got sick last Tuesday and didn't go back to school all week. I was going to make her go on Friday because a) I was going crazy having to stay at home all day without being able to accomplish one.single.thing., and b) I think she may have been playing it up a smidge.

I know. Shocking.

But as the week progressed and her health did not, I got to take a nice, long look at my life and the rapidly multiplying ways I could improve.

I'll spare you the list, because it's huge.

Me + spare time never ends well.

Because I wasn't working out, I was afraid to eat. For the two billionth time I wished there was something a la the Matrix that provided perfect nutrition - preferably a pill I could pop a few times a day and be done with it. Then they could invent Willy Wonka-esque chewing gum in actual food flavors so everyone could still taste their favorite foods without actually having to eat it. Or suffer the caloric consequences. I mean, really. Why hasn't this been done yet?

Because I wasn't eating well, I was grouchy. Almost the only thing I did right last week was to drink Shakeology, which is in reality probably the closest thing to perfect nutrition that exists at the moment. AND it tastes great.

The problem with my not eating or exercising correctly is that my weight loss comes to a screaming, screeching halt.

Sigh.

And that's not exactly motivating either.

By Thursday night, I was desperate enough that I hired a sitter so I could go to Zumba. It was glorious except for two things - whatever is going on with that area in my back is horribly agitated by Zumba. By the time we were halfway into the class, I felt like I was getting stabbed in the back. Look, I'm already actually watching myself in the mirror against my better judgement, so you'd think someone, somewhere would cut me some slack.

And the second thing has to do with Zumba property rights. I'm just going to say it - you are welcome to have a space you PREFER to dance in. But until someone carves, tattoos, or engraves your name on that spot, don't hate and pull an attitude worthy of my four year old. It makes you look redonkulous. Almost as redonkulous as saying redonkulous. Also? I outweigh you and I'm pretty sure I could take you in a rumble, if it came down to it...without having to sit on you or your hateful attitude. So unless you're willing to come every class and earn (yes, earn) your spot by Princess Stephanie the incredible and near Michelle the great (my terms, not theirs) then you don't get to bitch about it. Well, okay, that's not entirely true. Bitch all you want, but my ears are closed to it. And if you think you can invade my dance space, I leave you with this thought from Johnny aka the Swayze in Dirty Dancing..."Look, spaghetti arms. This is my dance space. This is your dance space. I don't go into yours, you don't go into mine."